


The Beast Who Shouted

by enemy_xands



Category: The Omen (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, Existential Angst, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Orgy, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemy_xands/pseuds/enemy_xands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damien fantasizes about snow and death, what could have been</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast Who Shouted

**Author's Note:**

> Well it's Halloween so why not. Maybe I'll get motivated to finish something haha. 
> 
> Yes, another re-imagining of THAT scene and everyone's favorite vaguely incestuous bro-couple. I've always wanted to analyze why Mark's death in particular was so important... title is, of course, inspired by Harlan Ellison.

The orgy was starting and Damien had a prime seat. It would have impressed LaVey or any of those other so-called occultists, or hell any normal warm-blooded man his age. He tried to look appreciative, he really did. But he declined to participate, choosing only to watch and eat the symbolic pomegranates and figs. These things could get a little over the top sometimes.

In his own fantasies, Damien thinks about snow. He thinks about skiing and the screaming faces of those he or the occultists under the influence of his Father have murdered. He thought of the way things _were_.

A nude woman painted gold slithered up to him, crawling on her belly and her tongue forked. Damien grimaced but allowed her to show her affectation and devotion, her love.

Worshiped as a Godlike figure—Damien chucked to himself at the irony—naturally, gave Damien a very distorted view of “love”. The few times he'd tried to offer it, it had blown up in his face quite spectacularly, and like in all things, led to death. Mark's death in particular always stuck in his mind, especially now that his dreams of falling snow had gotten more frequent over the past few months. What did it all mean?

Was that really what he had offered his cousin—brother? A way out from this madness by letting him _in_. That was his mercy—his love. He wished he could remember it “like it was yesterday”, but his own desires and—yes, even regrets—cloud his thoughts often of that day.

It was snowing, that he was sure of. They were in the snow, and Mark was upset. About what? About Damien. When Damien looked into his wet eyes, the ruddy cheeks and mucus-covered upper lip, he just thought of their summers together. He thought of the time he had broken Aunt Ann's priceless mirror (or was it something crystal, or porcelain...?) and, in a panic, ran to Mark about it. Mark knew his mother well and knew there would be no mercy from the tyrant for either of them, so they Krazy-Glued the thing back together. It was foolish, but what was even more foolish was Mark taking the fall for it. He was like that; a twinkle in his eye as Ann punished him for an hour in a closed-off room. Damien had sat outside hugging his knees, but by the time it was over Mark hardly wanted to speak. And that was that. 

That was real. That had happened. He could grasp those memories like a straw, and others like riding the life-sized model train together and swimming lessons. What did Mark have to cry about? Had he forgotten? But Damien knew that wasn't it at all, and he himself was upset as well. His voice was ragged and his throat raw with emotion.

“Please,” he said, surprised to hear himself. “Please... I'm begging you.” 

Mark straightened up, let his guard down. At that point, Damien got close enough to take his hands and wipe the tears and snow from his face; caressed his eye lashes and placed a kiss on top of his head.

“I love you,” he'd said, but something was missing. The modifier. Not “brotherly” love but, a love-love. What was the difference now? Mark was responding, nodding into the crook of his neck and muttering.

“Okay. Okay. Okay.”

Not acceptance but of defeat, but again it didn't matter to him now. He simply sighed in relief and drew him in closer. Mark kissed him right under his chin, right in a place that made him tingle all over and he flushed, the love mixed and mingled and Mark regarded him with a mixture of awe, fear, respect, and something else. Damien couldn't help but blur the boundary completely, and kissed his soft lips, cold and trembling from the snow. The feeling was warm and indescribable, like something he didn't even realize he had waited for his whole life. 

Damien grasped at the memory but it dissolved in his hands like smoke, like ash. Of course it hadn't happened that way, or else Mark would be at his side right now, maybe even a right hand man. Maybe a sex slave depending on how cliché Damien was feeling at the time; he'd settle for both. That was what was supposed to happen, and what had basically happened his whole life. But not this one, and maybe that's why it was special. 

There was no love in Mark's eyes that day in the snow, only hatred and disgust. Damien liked to imagine that he returned it with a convincing gaze of longing, but he knew that back then he was nothing but a ball of confusion. Torn between the human world and his rightful destiny. He knew in his right mind, and heart-of-hearts, that Mark was nowhere near strong-willed enough to take his offer. So why had he even offered to make himself heart broken? 

“You're the A-Antichrist!” 

Love. Disgusting, pure, unmodified love bloomed in him like a rose, like a lily. Even as this vile creature defiantly spat curses at him and disowned him, he couldn't stop the spread of it throughout his whole body. It shot up his throat and he thought he might vomit.

“I have... do love you, as my brother... please...”

He had seldom begged and would never do so again. This was the end; knowing his secret and refusing to join was Mark's death sentence, and he must have known it. But in his last moments, Damien wanted to grant him honesty. The other boy had straightened up, no longer crying, and looked as though he might simply _walk away_. Damien mentally grabbed his arm and Mark halted, surprise on his face.

_I love you_

He knew there were plenty of people who wouldn't just fall in line, not even to save their own skin—his Earth-father was a prime example—but just this time he wished, and could only wish.

_LOVE YOU_

Mark clutched at his ears and Damien could already see trickles of blood spilling out. But it was already over, no matter what.

_I LOVE YOU. WHY CAN'T YOU LOVE ME?_

The modifier was really gone this time, Damien was certain of that. He held that like another straw. Mark gagged, he was all gargled screams and blood running between his hands and looked as if he might try to say something. Realistically, Damien knew it would probably be something like “help” or “you crazy bastard stop this”, but he liked to imagine something more poetic. 

_I LOVE YOU_

The screaming finally stopped as Mark sank to the ground, eyes already glossy with death. Damien was reduced to quiet hiccuping sobs as he knelt over the prone body. Perversely, he kissed the cooling lips and eyelids and for a split moment imagined reciprocation. But of course...

The woman that had been slithering around on his leg finally detached herself and disappeared back into the orgy. Damien was growing bored and maudlin, so he took another pomegranate and squeezed it like a stress ball in his hand. He'd eat it eventually, but for now he was caught up in the liminal space between sweet fantasy and bittersweet memory. Clutching at straws of memory and looking but not looking, something always darting just out of the corner of his eye as he stared at the writhing mass of “devotees” chanting his name. 

Love, indeed.


End file.
